


In the Language of Flowers (Let Me Love You Forever)

by Ellory



Series: Pureblood Wizarding Culture [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Aristocracy, F/M, Genderbending, Pureblood Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 06:17:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12006834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellory/pseuds/Ellory
Summary: He offered his answer in the same language the question was asked: the language of flowers.





	In the Language of Flowers (Let Me Love You Forever)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on fanfiction.net.

Heiress Nephele Longbottom’s blonde curls garnered much abuse as she contemplated the situation. Her right index finger wound through a curl, only to pull it taut, until it was as straight as her hair ever got, and then she released it. The lock of hair bounced against her cheek, being the shortest layer she allowed. 

She stood on the balcony off the Gryffindor tower, knowing her fellow housemates wouldn’t approach her when she was on it. The few people who would dare to interrupt her when she sought privacy were socializing.

Her warm brown eyes watched the wizard flying through the air as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Yet she was observant enough to notice how recklessly he flew, as if possible injury didn’t matter. She couldn’t fault him for his grief, though. Lord Harry Potter had lost his godfather, and Lord Sirius Black (despite his rebelliousness) would have done his duty to his godson. Losing his only link to the Ancient Laws and Customs must hurt as much as the ruptured magical link that used to bind his magic to his godfather.

“Would you listen?” Nephele asked as she gazed upon Harry.

Before this year, she never would have presumed to speak to him alone. And she never would have pondered the merits of advising him on proper deportment, particularly when it came to expressing interest in a witch. Yet, he had trusted her enough to let her battle at his side in the Department of Mysteries … so maybe he would listen to her now?

Nephele had been interested in Harry since she learned Voldemort and his followers attacked both their families the same night. He and she were kindred victims.

Harry’s magic was a fearsome thing, rippling with power and protectiveness. As a pureblood witch, one raised the proper way (her grandmother Augusta ensured that), her magic naturally sought a guardian and protector for her. She wasn’t without magical strength herself (being quite powerful), but she needed a wizard whose magic was firm and resolute, a man who wouldn’t waver in the face of adversity. Very few qualified.

Still, she had been content to watch him from afar, sorrowing as he did, and rejoicing as he did. She had offered comfort in the only way she felt it was appropriate—by sending him anonymous gifts to let him know he was never alone. In fact, she had all but accepted that he would never notice her existence, until that changed last year. 

This morning at breakfast, he had glanced at Katie Bell with a hint of interest, something that had never been there before. Now, after all this time, Nephele was nigh compelled to stop him from committing to a relationship that would destroy all the respect true purebloods held for him. 

Heiress Daphne Greengrass was Nephele’s earliest childhood friend, and the best source of information in the school. The Slytherins who secretly counted on him to save them from their parents’ fate, the parents who subtly helped him when they could, desperate to be free of their insane master, would have no recourse but to cast him aside and leave him at the mercy of Dumbledore and the Dark Lord.

“But would you believe me?” she wondered aloud. It was difficult enough to advocate freeing any Death Eaters herself, even with undeniable proof they had been Imperiused. “And would you ever forgive me for being so forward?”

Nephele’s eyes squeezed shut as she stretched another curl out with her finger. The curl sprang back up, smooth hair kissing along her finger. True, offering unasked for advice was unseemly and much too bold, especially for her, but this one decision—his choice of romantic partner—could save or discard several lives.

And, perhaps, her chance to win his heart. Not that he had any idea she was in the running for it….

“Even if he thinks I’m a forward busybody”—she winced—“someone has to speak up. All his usual sources of information are either gone, won’t know, or wouldn’t dare accept their culpability.”

Decision made, Nephele couldn’t stop herself from trailing her eyes over Harry as he pulled off a brilliant Wronski Feint. This might be the last time she observed him unseen. She could only hope that when his eyes landed upon her in the future, they didn’t convey contempt or distrust. Such emotions would kill the unspoken hope that she might someday be worthy of him.

Laughing bitterly, Nephele wrapped her arms around herself, curling her fingers in the jade robes she wore; they were embroidered with her own hair, and had a corseted top. They were, undoubtedly, more flattering than the shapeless black robes all students were required to wear to classes. The school robes made her look fat, since they weren’t designed with curvy witches in mind. At sixteen, she was svelte and only five-foot-five. With the amount of magic she had been blessed with, she didn’t expect to grow any more.

The visages of Katie Bell and Cho Chang flashed through her mind. Both girls were outgoing and played Quidditch. Nephele wasn’t outgoing and her preferred sport was riding the pegasi her family kept.

Tears pricked her eyes, but she battled them into submission; she would never cry where someone could see her. It didn’t matter anyway, because she had known all along that the chances he would ever choose her were infinitesimal. True, she was a pureblood witch, just like Chang, but that was almost irrelevant. Harry wasn’t someone who would fall for a witch because of her ancestry. Nephele wasn’t blind to the attributes of her fellow witches, because she needed to always be aware of the competition. Daphne had legs, Bones had a breathtaking smile, Lovegood had personality, and the Patils were exotic.

“They offer greater temptations than blonde curls, brown eyes, and a plump physique.”

A whoop of delight echoed through the afternoon air, jolting Nephele from her self-deprecating thoughts. It didn’t matter what he thought of her. She only hoped that he would believe her when she told him the truth.

Taking a fortifying breath, Nephele steeled her nerves and flicked her birch wand. “Relashio!” A stream of fiery sparks erupted into the sky. Harry barrel-rolled thrice, and then swung his Firebolt around, flying directly toward her.

Too soon for her nerves, Harry stopped to hover over the balcony. His eyes swept from the top of her head to her slipper-shod feet. Then, face wiped clean of emotion, he landed near her and dismounted the broom. After propping it against the parapet, he raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Yes, Heiress Nephele?”

Nephele struggled with the urge to fidget, but she didn’t want to seem like even more of a fool than she sometimes looked. She lifted the hem of her robes, holding them just a touch too long to gather her nerves, and then sank into a deep curtsey—deeper than any curtsey she had ever given in her life. “Lord Potter, I beg your forgiveness for this horrible breech of manners, and for disturbing your leisure time.” He didn’t say a word, and she barely smothered a flinch. “I fear I find myself in a situation my grandmother would be appalled to learn I instigated.” Her legs began to burn with the exertion of holding completely still in such a pose; he was still silent. “I-I fear there are some things you are unaware of, my lord, and as no one else seems willing or able to impart the necessary knowledge unto you”—she swallowed and felt tears threaten to overwhelm her again—“I took it upon myself to blatantly ignore propriety and speak to you.”

His silence condemned her. This was the worst outcome imaginable. This was even worse than the time she had overheard Lady Malfoy telling an acquaintance that Nephele would be a ‘tolerable’ match for Draco if Pansy, Daphne, and a few other pureblood witches were already spoken for.

What in the world was she thinking? What right did she have to bother him and spout unasked for—? A tanned, calloused hand entered her field of vision before she could finish the thought. A bracelet circled his wrist; its presence made her smile. Harry’s hand cupped her left elbow, gently supporting her and lifting her back to her feet; it was only then that Nephele realized she had begun trembling, hands fisting in the skirt of her robes most viciously. She couldn’t glance away from his hand on her elbow, savoring the warmth that would surely become nothing more than a treasured memory. Oh, what must he think of her?

“Are you all right, Heiress Nephele?” Harry asked solicitously.

Her chin snapped upward, and she knew that shock overtook her face before she could even think to hide it. He cared enough to ask how she was? “I … I …” She sounded like a blasted fool! His hand slid up her arm to fold gently around her shoulder, and she wanted to scream with joy at the unintended caress.

His brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

The realization that Harry Potter was touching her, and that he cared enough to enquire after her health, pummeled into her all at once. This was the fulfillment of so many daydreams that it was improbable. Dazedly, she tapped her wand against the balustrade. The moment an elongated bench appeared, she collapsed onto it. “Please join me,” she said as she patted the space beside her.

He scrutinized her for a moment before conceding to her request. “As you wish, Heiress Nephele.” 

After he sat beside her, Nephele turned so that her right knee brushed against his left leg. She didn’t care how improper it was, discarded her grandmother’s voice berating her in her mind, and relished the renewed contact with the wizard she had long wanted for her own. If this was the only time in her life she would be allowed physical contact with him, then she would zealously gather as many brief touches as he would allow her. For a second, Nephele thought he was going to reach out and clasp her hand. He didn’t, though, and she banished the thought as wishful thinking. 

“What did you wish to discuss?” asked Harry.

Nephele bit the inside of her cheek as she was forcibly reminded of why, exactly, Lord Harry Potter was with her in private. Now that he was next to her, the last thing she wanted to do was bring up his possible attraction to Katie Bell. But her feelings didn’t matter at all, in this case. “I humbly ask your forgiveness for the impertinent topics I will raise. It is not my intention to make you uncomfortable in any way, Lord Potter.”

Harry blinked, and then nodded. “Don’t worry about my feelings. Speak truthfully of what needs to be said.”

Right. She could do this. She really could. Harry had given his permission, after all. “At breakfast this morning, I noticed you looking at Katie Bell”—her family had long lost their right to a real title, and she didn’t even deserve a ‘Miss’—“with a certain … interest.” The last word was almost mumbled, to her mortification. “I would advise you against following such an interest, my lord.”

He leaned backward, and Nephele keenly felt the loss of their legs touching. Her magic rippled with abandonment. “Oh?” Harry raised one eyebrow, which was unbearably appealing. “Why is that?”

“Because they won’t help you if you spit in the face of Mother Magic. They won’t trust you if you defy all Merlin and Morgana taught our ancestors. People will die, Lord Potter. She’s unworthy of you.”

“Why?”

Nephele closed her eyes and hoped that Harry wouldn’t flee at the next words she spoke. Harry didn’t understand them in context, and they were likely to make him loathe the very thought of her. “She comes from a family of Blood Traitors.” Opening her eyes again took a great deal of daring on her part; she had never enjoyed confrontation.

“You say that as if you really believe it,” Harry said, grimacing as if she had disappointed him somehow.

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the truth.” He shifted, as if to rise, and words spilled from her lips without a second thought. “I swear on my magic that the Bells are Blood Traitors in the eyes of Magic.” A tendril of her magic wove through the air and encircled his wrist, proving its allegiance remained with her.

“Next you’ll be agreeing with Malfoy and calling the Weasleys ‘Blood Traitors’ and Hermione a ‘Mudblood’.” The light in his eyes seemed to beg her to disagree with him.

“The Weasleys are not Blood Traitors. Heir Malfoy just refers to them thusly because of a feud between their families.” It was immature of him, to say the least.

“And Hermione?” Harry pressed.

“I would never speak such a vulgar word,” Nephele contradicted. A wince followed thereafter. “But Heir Malfoy wasn’t incorrect in applying it to her.”

“And I suppose you think the same of my mother,” Harry snarled as he leapt to his feet. His magic boiled about him, and the raw rage it emanated made her feel ill.

“No!” she cried as she hurried to stand. She should have known he would make such an assumption; the inaccurate connection made sense from his view of things. She was botching this horribly! “Lily Evans, your mother, was a wonderful witch: clever, kind, virtuous, and more. Your father wouldn’t have courted her otherwise, regardless of her immense beauty.”

“Snape called my mother a ‘Mudblood’ in front of a group of people,” Harry bit out tersely.

Nephele gasped. Her eyes widened in disbelief as she lifted a hand to cover her quivering lips. “You can’t be serious. His mother sponsored her! He, of all people, knew she served Mother Magic and honored her gift.”

“Snape’s mother sponsored my mother? What does that mean?” The tension lessened in his shoulders, and his magic stopped writhing in a cloud around him.

“Purebloods are raised with a full knowledge of their history, ancestry, and our roots. Magic is alive. It’s a sentient energy, and it gifted slivers of itself to people with admirable qualities: honor, virtue, honesty, courage, perseverance, and so forth. In return, all it asked was that all people gifted with parts of itself be treated equally. Blood doesn’t really matter; it’s magic that matters, my lord.” He nodded once, sharply, so she continued speaking. “Since purebloods have the greatest knowledge on the topic, scrolls and tablets that date back millennia, they are charged with guiding the half-bloods and, most of all, teaching new magic users—the Muggle-born—about our traditions and culture.”

“So a Mudblood is … ?” His impatient stare demanded an answer.

“A Muggle-born who refuses to be sponsored for whatever reason.” Nephele shrugged, unable to believe anyone who had been gifted with magic wouldn’t want to learn of its origins. “I know for a fact that Hermione refused the offer the Malfoy family made; that’s why Heir Malfoy despises her so much.”

Harry huffed, as if a Bludger had just hit him. He reeled, before sitting back on the bench. “Why would she do that? And why wouldn’t she mention meeting Malfoy before?”

“Some sponsorship contracts contain a clause that allows for bonding between a family member and the person being sponsored. It’s not required, of course, just an option for the future. I don’t know for sure, but from what I do know of Hermione, I imagine she thought it antiquated and barbaric. Once someone refuses such an offer, spits in the face of Mother Magic, they are forbidden to speak of it, on pain of losing the very gift they were given,” Nephele said. 

While Draco Malfoy certainly wouldn’t be her first choice of spouse, she knew he would be a loyal husband. Hermione could’ve done a lot worse. Not even Ron Weasley, a sixth son that she was hopelessly infatuated with, showed interest in her. In fact, Ron was about to make a move on Heiress Lavender Brown if Nephele wasn’t mistaken.

“And Hermione spurned Draco, only to set her cap at Ron, am I right?” Harry asked. “That’s why Draco hates her and calls her that horrible name.”

“Exactly right.” 

“Hmm,” Harry hummed noncommittally.

He seemed to be taking the news better than she had thought he would. That might be because Hermione wasn’t speaking to him anymore—something to do with Potions. This wasn’t the first time Hermione had abandoned Harry; unlike the Weasleys and Nephele, she had believed that Harry put his name in the Goblet of Fire during fourth year.

“Please explain to me what ‘Blood Traitor’ means, my lady.”

For a beat too long, Nephele cradled herself in those two words: my lady. To be permanently referred to as such, by him, in the most possessive manner, was one of her lifelong and fruitless pursuits. Why would he ever pick her, when Daphne was so much more? 

“Blood Traitors are those who can’t sponsor because they lost the honor to do so.” He waved a hand, indicating his desire for her to clarify. She did, once again thankful he hadn’t zoomed off on his broom. “Three generations back, the Heir of the Bell Family was obsessed with Muggles. When his father sponsored a Muggle-born, he tried to force her into a marriage.” She unwittingly said ‘marriage’ in the same way Harry’s Aunt Petunia said ‘magic’.

His brow furrowed once more. “I don’t…. Forcing someone into marriage is horrible, of course, but that doesn’t account for your obvious level of disgust. Especially in a world that employs betrothal contracts.”

Of all the things Sirius Black hadn’t been able to impart unto his godson before dying, why couldn’t this have been one of them? Nephele averted her eyes, aggravated at her flushing cheeks; they felt ablaze. “In the magical world the true joining of two people in an eternal commitment is called ‘bonding’. A marriage is legal, but temporary,” she whispered. “It’s generally instigated by people who don’t love each other but … wish to be intimate regardless.” Her grandmother would be horrified if she ever heard such words leave Nephele’s lips. This was not an appropriate topic of conversation for a lady.

“Mother Magic only approves of bonding,” Harry stated, drawing the correct conclusion.   
She nodded jerkily, and her hair almost came loose from its pins to lay against her chest. “So ‘Blood Traitor’ means traitor to the sworn duty Mother Magic assigned those of pure blood?” 

“Yes,” Nephele agreed. She watched Harry tentatively, but he wasn’t letting much shine through: thoughts or emotions. She took the fact that his leg was just barely touching her own as a sign that he believed her. His presence alone tempered her fear that he would hate her at the end of this conversation.

“So how, exactly, does Katie tie into this? Who won’t help me? Who won’t trust me? Who will die?” he asked, rapid-fire.

It took her a moment to recall the words she had expelled earlier. “If you court her, it will ruin their faith in you. The Death Eaters won’t help you. The Slytherins won’t trust you. And because of that, many people will die, Lord Potter. Many people.”

“The Death Eaters. Help me?” He stared at her as if he thought she was blooming mad.

Nephele lined up her thoughts and arguments meticulously. If she bungled this part, all the progress she had made was for naught. “Lord Potter, with all due respect to our magical power and dueling ability, do you really believe six students, aged fifteen and under, could out-duel and escape from a large group of skilled, pureblood adult wizards and witches? Is luck the reason you evaded death at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, when you, yourself, said that the Dark Lord and nine Death Eaters were present and you were gravely wounded? Do you honestly think a house-elf could leave the grounds it’s magically bound to without express permission from one of its masters? They’re fighting against the influence of the Dark Marks as best they can!” she declared passionately.

“Some of them are murderous, bigoted louts. Like Crouch and the Lestranges!” she spat. “However, many of them really were Imperiused. I’ve been provided undeniable evidence of this. I swear it on my magic.” She reached out and grabbed his hand, needing him to feel and know that she was telling the truth. “Voldemort is a monster! And according to prophecy, you’re the only hope we have of being freed. If you court Katie Bell, they will see it as a betrayal of all they’ve fought to protect and teach. You are literally their only hope, my lord.” 

The tears were back in her eyes, and she wasn’t sure if she could stifle them this time. She was defending Death Eaters to Harry Potter. Any miniscule hope she had at winning his heart was gone now. But Longbottoms were ever valiant; she couldn’t turn her head and pretend she didn’t know the truth.

“So please,” Nephele whispered, “I beg you to choose anyone other than Katie Bell.”

“I don’t have feelings for Katie, Heiress Nephele,” Harry said as he absently rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand.

That didn’t make any sense. She had seen his interest this morning with her own eyes! “But I saw …” Could she have been mistaken?

“I thought she might be a harmless diversion while I waited. I didn’t know such a thing would have such dire consequences, else I never would’ve entertained the thought in the first place,” said Harry. His shoulders slumped, as if he was ashamed of his own ignorance, when the lack of knowledge wasn’t his fault at all. Someone should have offered to sponsor him; though, until recently, like the others, she had assumed he was taught everything he needed to know as a child.

“While you waited for what?” Nephele asked. It almost sounded like he was waiting for a woman. But that was preposterous. All the witches she knew would be willing to drop everything, even a current courtship, to have a chance with him.

“For ‘whom,’” he corrected. 

Nephele stuttered as she asked, “W-while you w-waited for w-whom?”

Harry shook his head and sighed. “I can’t say, Heiress Nephele.”

Did this have to do with the bracelet? Was he, impossibly, waiting for her? She, Nephele Longbottom, a plump witch with poor scores? She could scarcely allow the thought to take root. 

Nephele stood, dislodging his hand and sending it tumbling into his lap. Before her seventeenth birthday, she literally couldn’t speak of her feelings for him. It was one of the Longbottom Family Laws a patriarch instituted to protect naïve and innocent witches from wizards who would seek to use them ill. Her magic would bind all words of love and commitment in her throat.

By the time she could finally speak her feelings, would he have chosen someone else?

“Heiress Nephele?” The words were cautious.

Nephele stepped away from him, curtseying deeply once again. Her heart beat frantically as she gazed upon his broad shoulders. His face betrayed nothing but confusion as he gazed at her. “Again, my lord, I apologize for speaking of such indelicate topics. Please forgive me. I’ll leave you to your leisure time now.” She pulled the words straight from her grandmother’s mouth.

“Of course.” Harry said. He nodded, stood, and collected his Firebolt. “There’s no need to apologize, my lady. Thank you for intervening when you did.”

Nephele clutched his hands together as he flew away, taking her heart with him.

* * *

A non-descript school owl tapped on the window of Harry Potter’s bedroom in the Head Boy chambers. He rubbed tired eyes and threw back the covers. A wide yawn split his face. He absently scratched the itch on his stomach as he wandered over to open the window. It took little effort to push it open, but the blast of freezing wind and the face-full of snowflakes was an unwelcome wake-up call. He had been planning to crawl back in bed after reading the missive, but that wouldn’t happen now.

He had never been able to fall back asleep after being alert.

“Brilliant,” Harry muttered, lips twisted in an expression that said just the opposite.

The owl screeched and lifted its right leg, revealing the velvet pouch that dangled from its talons. Harry untied it in silence, eyes narrowed with confusion. He recognized it. However, it was early. Was something wrong?

“Thank you,” Harry said, his thoughts not focusing on the present time.

With another screech, the owl took off. Its wings flapped flurries of snowflakes into his face. Harry sputtered as he pulled the window shut, grumbling under his breath. “I hate the cold!” It reminded him of childhood nights at Privet Drive, and memories that he had learned Occlumency to lock away even from himself.

Harry hurried back to bed and got under the covers. He sat against the headboard, fingers fiddling with the bag. Why was it so early? That worried him. One had never come early before. “What will it be this time?” he asked, anticipation flooding his body. He knew it would be a flower, but he didn’t know what kind.

His gaze shifted from the velvet bag to his left wrist. The silver bracelet that encircled it had thirteen flower charms attached. He got the bracelet itself and a hyacinth charm for his eleventh birthday, before Harry had even learned about the magical world. It seemed like a gift more appropriate for a girl, but Harry hadn’t complained; it was the first gift he had ever been given. The hyacinth, his first charm, was different from all the rest. It was the only one that came without a memory in it.

He chuckled as he remembered his previous ignorance. Harry hadn’t even known that flowers and plants had meanings until the third week of Herbology back in first year. That was when he learned what a hyacinth meant: benevolence. The thought of someone having kind and well-meaning intentions toward him had brought him comfort—especially in a world that was so different from what he was accustomed to.

Since the bracelet and hyacinth came, he had received a new charm twice a year, and each came with a brief memory of him attached. Like clockwork, Harry got one for every birthday and every Yule. However, Yule was still several days away. The pattern was broken. “Why?”

Harry stroked the other charms on his bracelet. Whenever he opened the little velvet bags, they attached themselves to the bracelet in a specific order—the order in which he had received them.

“A currant, for thankfulness,” Harry said as he touched his first Yule gift. He still didn’t know what he had done to inspire that one; he wished he did. “A fern, for sincerity.” His twelfth birthday present had distracted him from his forced imprisonment in his room. It reminded him that he wasn’t alone. “An ivy, for friendship.” Harry cherished that still, because friendship was the best Christmas present he had ever received.

“And for my thirteenth birthday,” Harry said, as a charm balanced on his fingertip, “you gave me a hepatica, for trust.” Trust was a gift not many deserved; Harry treasured it. That winter, before the truth of Sirius Black not wanting to murder him was discovered, he received yet another. “A bryony, for support.” He was never alone, even when it felt like it.

The charm signifying his fourteenth birthday never failed to bring a blush to Harry’s face. “A lilac, for earliest love,” he whispered. If only he knew his secret admirer’s identity! How did she always know just what he needed? His fingertips danced to the next charm, the one that came to him not long after the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament, when everything was falling apart. “A passion-flower, for belief.” Whoever she was, she had believed that he could succeed, and that he hadn’t put his name in the blasted Goblet of Fire. Such people were rare.

Upon turning fifteen, when his friends ignored his requests for information, and nightmares of the graveyard filled his mind, a little velvet bag came and restored some measure of peace. “A cypress, for mourning.” His secret admirer hadn’t tried to pry into his feelings; she had acknowledged their importance. And that Yule, as the Daily Prophet continued a smear campaign against him and Dumbledore, she sent just what he needed. “A Lily of the Valley, for return of happiness.” Knowing his pain caused her pain had made Harry try harder to be strong.

Harry didn’t want to touch the present he received when he turned sixteen. The memory in it always made him cry. It was, perhaps, the most insightful of them all. “An everlasting, for perpetual remembrances.” Sirius had died to protect him from Bellatrix Lestrange, and Harry would never forget that or his godfather. A blush colored his cheeks again as the next charm filled his vision. “A tulip, for declaration of love.” Who was she? If her aim had been to win his heart, she had succeeded long ago.

His coming of age charm, received just months ago, still made him tremble. “A wild daisy, which asks the question, Dost thou love me?” Harry did. He knew only a pureblood witch would go to such trouble to express her affection in an appropriate manner. And he had decided that he would bond with her—whomever she may be. He didn’t care what House she was in, how much magic she had, what her family name was, and her physical appearance didn’t signify.

Harry Potter loved his secret admirer for her personality. She was the reason he had never sent anyone a courtship offer. She was the reason he had never been on any Courtship Dates. And he still didn’t have any idea who she was.

“Please,” Harry begged, “give me a clue.”

His fingers shook as he opened the velvet bag that had been delivered early. He dumped it upside-down and caught the charm in his left palm. It skittered sideways and magically attached itself to the bracelet. Then, as had been the case with the last twelve, a memory swallowed him—as if he had stumbled inside a miniature Pensieve.

Harry stood still and it played around him. He was standing in the Gryffindor common room, watching himself sit in a chair by the fireplace. His feet were thrown carelessly over the arm of the chair, and his face was alight with laughter.

“I remember this,” said Harry, as the noises of that night surrounded him. “It was just last week.” He had never before been sent such a recent memory.

The Harry in the chair propped his chin on his hand and asked, “Hey, Ron, why did my invitation to your bonding with Lavender say ‘Lord Harry Potter and Guest’ on it?”

Ron Weasley snorted and looked up from the game of Exploding Snap he was playing. “Because Mum thought it would be tragic if you didn’t bring your future wife to the bonding. She says it’s ‘the blackest of luck’ for the Best Wizard to attend a bonding without escorting the love of his life.”

Harry froze. “She’s kidding, right?”

Ron flinched and rubbed the back of his head. “Not really, no. It’s really old magic, Harry. Bondings and such. Are you sure you can’t...?”

He glanced away from Ron and brushed his thumb over the tulip charm. “I’ll try.”

The common room vanished, and Harry was left sitting on his bed. His gaze homed in on the newest charm, but he didn’t recognize the flower. It was some type of rose, but that was as close as he could get. He wouldn’t let that stop him, though. Heiress Nephele Longbottom was an Herbology genius; she was going on to get a Mastery in it after Hogwarts. She would be able to tell him what it was and its meaning.

Harry had never gotten ready for the day so fast in his life. He was showered, dressed, groomed and leaving his room within ten minutes. He walked so fast that he was almost running through the hallways. And he wouldn’t have stopped at all if he hadn’t heard someone speak her name. Maybe she hadn’t made it to the Great Hall for breakfast yet, after all.

“Really, Seamus? Nephele Longbottom?” Dean Thomas asked. Harry had never particularly liked Dean, even though they were on the Quidditch team together. Dean had no respect for women. “Isn’t she too curvy for you? I thought you liked slender girls.”

“I do,” Seamus said. “But Nephele’s a pureblood. And her parents are both in St. Mungo’s—so her husband would become a lord, since she’s their only child. I’m talking Lord of the Valiant and Most Ancient House of Longbottom.” Seamus laughed like a child in a candy store. “I’ll marry her, and if she gets on my nerves, well, I could always get a severance.” 

Harry felt cold and hollow as that evil word left Seamus’s lips. Marriages and severances were nothing to joke about. How could Seamus even consider doing something like that? But especially to someone as innocent and sweet as Nephele?

“That’s a good point,” Dean said. “Sometimes things just don’t work out, you know?”

And that sent Harry over the edge.

He hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone this much since Bellatrix Lestrange had murdered Sirius right in front of him. Harry took a deep breath and walked past the alcove they were in, head down. If he saw them, he knew he would attack them for that.

“Oi, Harry!” Seamus’s voice called out in greeting.

Harry gripped the strap of his book-bag so that he wouldn’t reach for his wand. Sectumsempra sat on the tip of his tongue, and there was no Snape anymore to heal a wound caused by it. “Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas, from this moment forward you and your direct lines are enemies of the Honorable and Most Ancient House of Potter.” He didn’t wait to hear their responses before sprinting off.

He only slowed when he reached the Entrance Hall and saw Ron leaning against the wall with a scowl. Ron dragged a hand over his face and sighed. “I wish you’d give me a warning before doing that, Harry.”

“It wasn’t planned,” Harry replied, feeling only slightly guilty for the rush of magic that would’ve just ripped through his First Vassal.

“Of course it wasn’t,” Ron sighed. “All right, I give. Who are we enemies with now?”

“Finnegan and Thomas,” Harry spat. He was still wondering if he had made the right choice; it would’ve been so much easier to curse them.

Ron’s jaw dropped, before snapping shut. “They really must have made you angry.”

The Elder Wand was in Harry’s hand before he even realized he wanted it there. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then we won’t,” Ron replied. “But if you storm into the Great Hall with your wand in your hand, you’re going to freak everyone out.”

“Right.” Harry closed his eyes, slid his wand back into its holster, and then caressed his bracelet. As disturbing as the past few minutes had been, he did have something very important that he needed to find out. He opened his eyes. “I’m good.”

Ron offered him a mocking bow. “My lord.”

“Knock it off,” Harry said, cheeks flushing. “I hate it when you do that in public.”

Snickering, Ron said, “Why do you think I do it?”

Harry rolled his eyes and entered the Great Hall. Ron could be a prat sometimes, but he kept life interesting. Best mates were good for that. As usual, Harry was the center of attention once he entered the room. He had long since gotten used to it, though. As he walked toward the Gryffindor table, he answered the polite questions the younger students asked and returned every “good morning” thrown his way.

When he was less than five feet away from where the seventh-year students always sat, Nephele turned her head to answer a question from Parvati Patil. Her honey-colored hair was up in a high chignon, and there was a single red flower placed in it. It was a larger version of the charm he had received that morning.

Harry stood and stared at her hair as the realization sank in. Nephele Longbottom, Heiress of the Valiant and Most Ancient House of Longbottom, was his secret admirer and personal strength.

And with that knowledge, his desire to attack Seamus and Dean returned.

“Whatever it is,” Ron whispered, “bottle it up. No murder before breakfast, mate.”

Harry claimed the seat next to Nephele, which wasn’t all that unusual. It was like any other morning at the Gryffindor table. Until, of course, Harry wrapped his arm around Nephele’s waist, pulled her firmly against his side, kissed her flushing cheek, and said, “Morning, my lady.”

“H-Heir Potter?” Nephele squeaked.

So innocent, and all his. “After all these years, my lady, there’s no need to be so formal. Call me Harry.”

“G-good morning, H-Harry,” she stammered, her face as red as the flower in her hair.

Harry grinned. “Much better.” Then he leaned down and whispered the question he needed her to answer. “What flower is it, Nephele?”

She fiddled with the newest charm on his bracelet and whispered, “A hawthorn.”

His voice lowered before asking the next question. “And what does it mean?” He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her. She was captivating. She smelled wonderful, and he wanted to bury his head in her neck and breathe her in.

“Hope,” she said, head ducked. “It means hope.”

Harry relished her warmth at his side, and knew he never wanted it to change. Her hope would not be in vain. With a flourish of his wand, a bouquet sprang into his hand. It was the answer he had wanted to give his secret admirer for the last two years. He offered his answer in the same language the question was asked: the language of flowers. “Will this be acceptable, my lady?”

Nephele fondled the petals of the amaranth and honeysuckle flowers. Her big brown eyes were wet as she smiled up at him. “Yes, Harry. It’s what I’ve always dreamed of having.” Nephele leaned her head on Harry’s shoulder, melted against his side, and accepted his offer of immortal bonds of love.


End file.
